I hate shopping for food for a ton of reasons...the fact that anything healthy costs more than anything unhealthy, hunting for a parking space only to find an abandoned shopping cart in it, signs that say things like "10 Item's or Less" and set my teeth on edge...but one of the more recent developments in the universe, one that I thought I would really love, tends to make me the craziest: self-checkout.
First let me say: I love self-checkout. Love it. I love scanning my items, touch-screening in my method of payment, and then swiping my debit card. These are great things. (Even greater is Jewel-Osco's "pay by touch" system, where you pay by putting your finger on this little scanner, but that's a whole other post.) So I'm a big fan of the concept behind going into the store, grabbing the small handful of items you need, scanning 'em, paying for 'em, and getting on with your life without going through the traditional manned checkout/bagging lane. Except for one thing: People have no clue how to line up for self-checkout, and most stores are too shy to just go ahead and make up a rule.
The rule should be: Form one line for the self-checkout area, and then the next person in line goes to the next available scanner, no matter which one becomes free first. Right? Isn't that a nice, simple rule that should work? The self-checkouts are usually even set up to be conducive to this rule, because there is more than one self-checkout kiosk per row.
However, this rule does not work, because 1) Most stores won't put up signs explaining it, thus ensuring that everyone realizes what a wonderful rule it would be; and 2) In the absence of a written rule, people automatically try to get behind the person who appears to have the fewest items to scan, thinking that this scanner will be available next. False logic, since it is entirely possible that the person attempting to purchase that one 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke with Lime will have never used the scanner before, not realized that only Pepsi products are the ones on sale, and have nothing but wrinkled, disheveled dollar bills to put into the bill acceptor. (And that's only if the person succeeds in locating the bar code on the product, and it's not ripped or defaced enough to prevent a successful scan.)
So if everyone would just form a single-file line, things could conceivably move a lot faster...and then those little shopping trips for a single jar of fat-free beef gravy wouldn't turn into exercises in exasperation.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Traffic
Today, I'm finally going to gripe about something that's been bothering me for a LONG time. Ever since the late 1800s, when the transportation department apparently started this road improvement project that never seems to show any signs of improving.
I get on I-94 to go to work, and I always pull out of the county road that we live on and stay in the right lane. This is because I know that the left lane is going to end, and I want to not have to squeeze in at the last minute. Now, I am not the only one who knows about this lane ending thing. Theoretically, so do the people who just happen to be passing through this area, and observe the "left lane ends" orange construction-style signs that appear a few miles before the cones make the lane merge into the right lane and go away.
Problem is, I don't know what people are thinking when they see the "left lane ends; merge right" directives. Because the minute that sign comes into view, people start making a beeline for the left lane, apparently trying to beat as many vehicles as possible into the front of the single lane of traffic. About half the time, this turns into a backup (and occasionally a pileup) because if you rush to the front of the line and can't get anyone to let you in when the lane ends, you have to stop, and this results in traffic getting slower and slower until I end up having a headache before I even get to work.
Unless to the people coming down the state highway near my home it is perpetually opposite day, I have to conclude that there's a good chance they might be...well...stupid? Or just really competitive?
This is the kind of thing that turns every morning's commute into a philosophical debate within my own head, and I end up exhausted before I can even check my morning e-mail. And if I'm exhausted by the time I hear about K-Fed's latest misadventure as reported in the gossip blogosphere, then I'm in no shape to read my National Enquirer....and that's just sad.
I get on I-94 to go to work, and I always pull out of the county road that we live on and stay in the right lane. This is because I know that the left lane is going to end, and I want to not have to squeeze in at the last minute. Now, I am not the only one who knows about this lane ending thing. Theoretically, so do the people who just happen to be passing through this area, and observe the "left lane ends" orange construction-style signs that appear a few miles before the cones make the lane merge into the right lane and go away.
Problem is, I don't know what people are thinking when they see the "left lane ends; merge right" directives. Because the minute that sign comes into view, people start making a beeline for the left lane, apparently trying to beat as many vehicles as possible into the front of the single lane of traffic. About half the time, this turns into a backup (and occasionally a pileup) because if you rush to the front of the line and can't get anyone to let you in when the lane ends, you have to stop, and this results in traffic getting slower and slower until I end up having a headache before I even get to work.
Unless to the people coming down the state highway near my home it is perpetually opposite day, I have to conclude that there's a good chance they might be...well...stupid? Or just really competitive?
This is the kind of thing that turns every morning's commute into a philosophical debate within my own head, and I end up exhausted before I can even check my morning e-mail. And if I'm exhausted by the time I hear about K-Fed's latest misadventure as reported in the gossip blogosphere, then I'm in no shape to read my National Enquirer....and that's just sad.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Oh, Matt, Why?
I watch the Today show every morning, and yesterday I got VERY peeved at Matt Lauer for one simple reason...when he mentioned the premiere of Survivor, he said "Survival" and didn't correct himself. The nerve of that guy....
Monday, May 29, 2006
The Carpenters
Having spent the entire holiday weekend outside "improving" the home, I went through at least two high-volume spray cans of Spectracide. (For those of you not wasp-phobic, this is a highly-toxic chemical spray, which can spray up to 27 feet away from you. You use it to "knock out" wasps that are buzzing around, and also to destroy their nests.)
Well, this weekend I found out that wasps are annoying little milquetoasty wussies when compared to...carpenter bees.
This weekend had a twofold objective...both to finish the 6-foot privacy fence we're putting up on one side of the yard, and to finish planting veggies in the garden. Smack dab in the middle of yesterday I started getting harassed by carpenter bees, which look exactly like bumblebees except they're bigger and actually have the ability to bounce. Bob batted one over the fence with a stray picket, and it just came back pissed off.
Each one of us went out there with a new can of spray, and each one of us was amazed by these insects' powers of regeneration. They just will not die. So, of course, knowing that Menards was open till 6 today, I went online to see what could kill them. It turns out that killing them involves either A) calling a professional; B) ridding your property of all wooden structures; C) spending $290 on this wand system that will eject dessicating powder at high speed through the bees' burrows.
Then I found out that they nest in pairs, and that the male is the one who guards the nest. But, in what is undoubtedly one of God's little jests, the male that so aggressively guards the nest is born without the ability to sting. Just another thing to make me feel stupid in the middle of a home improvement project.
Well, this weekend I found out that wasps are annoying little milquetoasty wussies when compared to...carpenter bees.
This weekend had a twofold objective...both to finish the 6-foot privacy fence we're putting up on one side of the yard, and to finish planting veggies in the garden. Smack dab in the middle of yesterday I started getting harassed by carpenter bees, which look exactly like bumblebees except they're bigger and actually have the ability to bounce. Bob batted one over the fence with a stray picket, and it just came back pissed off.
Each one of us went out there with a new can of spray, and each one of us was amazed by these insects' powers of regeneration. They just will not die. So, of course, knowing that Menards was open till 6 today, I went online to see what could kill them. It turns out that killing them involves either A) calling a professional; B) ridding your property of all wooden structures; C) spending $290 on this wand system that will eject dessicating powder at high speed through the bees' burrows.
Then I found out that they nest in pairs, and that the male is the one who guards the nest. But, in what is undoubtedly one of God's little jests, the male that so aggressively guards the nest is born without the ability to sting. Just another thing to make me feel stupid in the middle of a home improvement project.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Spell It Out for Me
I've been furious about this one for a long time, but I didn't think it was worth posting about because I figured someone would notice the problem and fix it and I'd be happy again. But no.
On my way to work, there's this store that's going out of business, so they have been having a sale to unload all the stuff they've got left. Their sign reads:
GOING OUT OF BUISNESS SALE
It's been weeks since the sale, and now they're permanently closed, and no one has taken down the sign. I wonder if anyone would care if I went over there and switched the two letters to their correct positions. It's really bothering me, and all I'd need is a ladder.... But of course, in a town this small, such a stunt would probably result in someone calling the police.
This is what happens when you're an English major. You start to care way too much about stuff like this. (There's a sign, also on my way to work, that has had a misplaced apostrophe for a while, but as you fellow English majors know, sadly, apostrophe abuse is running rampant in this country, so I didn't think it was worth mentioning.)
Sigh.
On my way to work, there's this store that's going out of business, so they have been having a sale to unload all the stuff they've got left. Their sign reads:
GOING OUT OF BUISNESS SALE
It's been weeks since the sale, and now they're permanently closed, and no one has taken down the sign. I wonder if anyone would care if I went over there and switched the two letters to their correct positions. It's really bothering me, and all I'd need is a ladder.... But of course, in a town this small, such a stunt would probably result in someone calling the police.
This is what happens when you're an English major. You start to care way too much about stuff like this. (There's a sign, also on my way to work, that has had a misplaced apostrophe for a while, but as you fellow English majors know, sadly, apostrophe abuse is running rampant in this country, so I didn't think it was worth mentioning.)
Sigh.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Self-Loathing
It's really annoying me that I haven't posted to this thing since the Halloween candy debacle. That will change soon...so far this week has provided a bumper crop of things to whine about.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Strangers with Candy
This Halloween, we actually lived in a neighborhood that contains children. I'm not a huge fan of kids, but in the spirit of the holiday I wanted us to distribute candy. So I bought five big bags, dumped them into a big bowl, and waited by the door.
Now keep in mind that because this is Indiana in November, it was already pitch-black outside, and to top it off it was raining. Because of this situation, most of the trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood were being driven from house to house by their parents, plus most were wearing plastic rain ponchos and carrying umbrellas, so it was really tough to tell what anyone was. (This was actually okay with me, because it saved me from having to make a comment about how cute their costumes were. I never know what to say in those types of situations!)
My first customer was this drenched little bumblebee. I offered the bowl to him and said he could pick his own candy. He got this really excited look on his face and grabbed a Butterfinger. I didn't realize getting the liberty to choose your own candy was so rare...and apparently word got around. The kids were ecstatic at the prospect of actually picking out stuff they liked, as opposed to getting stuck with mini granola bars, circus peanuts, raisins, or other objectionable items.
Then a group of about six kids, obviously all related, landed on the doorstep.
They were ready for me.
The oldest one, a girl, marched up to the bowl, grabbed a candy bar, and said, "Can I have two? My great-grandma couldn't come with us, so I'm collecting for her, too."
At this point, I figured I had three options:
1) act all establishment and enforce the one-piece-per-kid rule;
2) try to expose the scam by asking a series of tough questions about this great-grandma;
3) let her have it, and see how far they'd try to take the scam.
So I went with #3. I figured it was a good experiment in human behavior. After all, isn't it human nature to, when a fellow human being is giving you something for free, try to talk that person into giving you another one for free?
One of the kids in her group who'd timidly taken one Blow Pop from the bowl right before his sister immediately spun around and came back. "I need one for my great-grandma, too," he said, grabbing a Hershey bar.
Another one charged forward. "My brother's sick and I'm trick-or-treating for him, so I get four, right? Because we each get one for our great-grandma, too?"
Now, I'd had my doubts about Great-Grandma before...but now I was pretty sure she either didn't exist, or lived in a whole other state and had no idea she was being used in this way.
Due to my curiosity about how the human mind works, I ended up having to dip into my husband's peanut-butter-cup stash to serve the last two trick-or-treaters.
Next year, I think it would be fun to give out ONLY those orange circus peanuts. Now THAT's an experiment.
Now keep in mind that because this is Indiana in November, it was already pitch-black outside, and to top it off it was raining. Because of this situation, most of the trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood were being driven from house to house by their parents, plus most were wearing plastic rain ponchos and carrying umbrellas, so it was really tough to tell what anyone was. (This was actually okay with me, because it saved me from having to make a comment about how cute their costumes were. I never know what to say in those types of situations!)
My first customer was this drenched little bumblebee. I offered the bowl to him and said he could pick his own candy. He got this really excited look on his face and grabbed a Butterfinger. I didn't realize getting the liberty to choose your own candy was so rare...and apparently word got around. The kids were ecstatic at the prospect of actually picking out stuff they liked, as opposed to getting stuck with mini granola bars, circus peanuts, raisins, or other objectionable items.
Then a group of about six kids, obviously all related, landed on the doorstep.
They were ready for me.
The oldest one, a girl, marched up to the bowl, grabbed a candy bar, and said, "Can I have two? My great-grandma couldn't come with us, so I'm collecting for her, too."
At this point, I figured I had three options:
1) act all establishment and enforce the one-piece-per-kid rule;
2) try to expose the scam by asking a series of tough questions about this great-grandma;
3) let her have it, and see how far they'd try to take the scam.
So I went with #3. I figured it was a good experiment in human behavior. After all, isn't it human nature to, when a fellow human being is giving you something for free, try to talk that person into giving you another one for free?
One of the kids in her group who'd timidly taken one Blow Pop from the bowl right before his sister immediately spun around and came back. "I need one for my great-grandma, too," he said, grabbing a Hershey bar.
Another one charged forward. "My brother's sick and I'm trick-or-treating for him, so I get four, right? Because we each get one for our great-grandma, too?"
Now, I'd had my doubts about Great-Grandma before...but now I was pretty sure she either didn't exist, or lived in a whole other state and had no idea she was being used in this way.
Due to my curiosity about how the human mind works, I ended up having to dip into my husband's peanut-butter-cup stash to serve the last two trick-or-treaters.
Next year, I think it would be fun to give out ONLY those orange circus peanuts. Now THAT's an experiment.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Here, Kitty, Kitty...KITTY?
One family member who is settling in nicely into the new home is Blackjack the cat. In fact, I think home ownership (well, shamelessly mooching off the actual homeowners) has triggered a nesting instinct in him. And though I know it's not technically possible due to the fact that he's been neutered, I think somehow, in some way, he is out there making copies of himself.
I say this because every time I let him outside, I'll see at least one other identical black cat somewhere — off in the pasture behind the house, over across the street staring at me. In case you think I'm being overly paranoid about this, I have to add that this also happened back at the apartments we used to live in. One night I opened the glass door to let Blackjack in, and there were two of him out there. I'm pretty sure we brought the right one with us....
One way that this cloning process may be happening? OK, way back in the day, there was this comic strip called Calvin & Hobbes. (Pause for nostalgic music and fond memories.) Calvin was this precocious kid who was always getting himself in some kind of trouble due to resisting his parents' authority, smarting off to the teacher, Miss Wormwood, or getting into boyish mischief involving mud, snow, or bugs. He also had a stuffed tiger named Hobbes, who would only come to life and have conversations with Calvin when no one else was around.
Calvin lived in an almost-constant fantasy world, and one thing he decided to do for several strips was make copies of himself so the original Calvin could go out and have fun while his duplicates managed the unpleasant parts of his life, like homework and going to bed at a reasonable hour. The duplication process began when he got into this cardboard box (I think it was called "The Calvinator") and pushing a button drawn on the side. His duplicate would then hop out of the box and cheerfully go about Calvin's menial tasks while the original was off planning snowball or water-balloon attacks on his female archrival, Susie.
I think, somehow, Blackjack has figured out how to do this, because everywhere we go we are awash in duplicate kitties. I hope they don't get too close or act too cute, though, because I have a soft heart. And now, with the whole homeowner thing, a yard.
That reminds me, I still want to get a dog....
I say this because every time I let him outside, I'll see at least one other identical black cat somewhere — off in the pasture behind the house, over across the street staring at me. In case you think I'm being overly paranoid about this, I have to add that this also happened back at the apartments we used to live in. One night I opened the glass door to let Blackjack in, and there were two of him out there. I'm pretty sure we brought the right one with us....
One way that this cloning process may be happening? OK, way back in the day, there was this comic strip called Calvin & Hobbes. (Pause for nostalgic music and fond memories.) Calvin was this precocious kid who was always getting himself in some kind of trouble due to resisting his parents' authority, smarting off to the teacher, Miss Wormwood, or getting into boyish mischief involving mud, snow, or bugs. He also had a stuffed tiger named Hobbes, who would only come to life and have conversations with Calvin when no one else was around.
Calvin lived in an almost-constant fantasy world, and one thing he decided to do for several strips was make copies of himself so the original Calvin could go out and have fun while his duplicates managed the unpleasant parts of his life, like homework and going to bed at a reasonable hour. The duplication process began when he got into this cardboard box (I think it was called "The Calvinator") and pushing a button drawn on the side. His duplicate would then hop out of the box and cheerfully go about Calvin's menial tasks while the original was off planning snowball or water-balloon attacks on his female archrival, Susie.
I think, somehow, Blackjack has figured out how to do this, because everywhere we go we are awash in duplicate kitties. I hope they don't get too close or act too cute, though, because I have a soft heart. And now, with the whole homeowner thing, a yard.
That reminds me, I still want to get a dog....
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
When you shop Menard's....
You're hearing that ridiculous commercial jingle in your head now, right? "Save big money at Menaaaaaard's!"
Now I have to admit, having become a homeowner just recently, that my husband and I will be spending probably every weekend arguing in the aisles of this place. (There's this episode of King of the Hill...or maybe it was Beavis & Butthead...but anyway it was this animated show where an animated character with the voice of Hank Hill was wandering around a Home-Depot-style store called "Home Labyrinth." Until now, I didn't truly feel his pain.)
I'd post a picture of the house, and it pains me to say this, but to be honest I'm a blog newbie and I have no idea how to do it. We should have known that a real estate listing that used the phrase "well-kept manufactured home" really meant, "home with multiple abandoned home improvement projects going on." Every time we open a door, we come face to face with another half-finished project.
For example, in the living room, three of the four main walls are covered in circa-1982 hideous brown paneling. One wall, however, has had white wallboard nailed to it and a nice window installed. Another curious feature of the living room (and most of the other rooms) is that almost all of the electrical outlets are installed upside-down, with that annoying third prong at the top instead of the bottom.
Same in the bathroom...new sheets of vinyl (designed, of course, to LOOK like tile) have been nailed to the walls, but they don't line up exactly right in most places. We also noticed that one wall wasn't exactly nailed down yet. Like the aspiring Bob Vila who previously owned the place ran out of nails right before attaching that one piece...so he solved the problem by propping the sheet of "tile" against the wall. I'm figuring he just couldn't stomach another trip to the home-improvement center.
So there are a LOT of trips to Menard's, Lowe's, Home Depot, and any other place that sells fixtures, flooring, and tools in our future. And where there's home improvement, there's comedy....
More house-related anecdotes as they roll in....
Now I have to admit, having become a homeowner just recently, that my husband and I will be spending probably every weekend arguing in the aisles of this place. (There's this episode of King of the Hill...or maybe it was Beavis & Butthead...but anyway it was this animated show where an animated character with the voice of Hank Hill was wandering around a Home-Depot-style store called "Home Labyrinth." Until now, I didn't truly feel his pain.)
I'd post a picture of the house, and it pains me to say this, but to be honest I'm a blog newbie and I have no idea how to do it. We should have known that a real estate listing that used the phrase "well-kept manufactured home" really meant, "home with multiple abandoned home improvement projects going on." Every time we open a door, we come face to face with another half-finished project.
For example, in the living room, three of the four main walls are covered in circa-1982 hideous brown paneling. One wall, however, has had white wallboard nailed to it and a nice window installed. Another curious feature of the living room (and most of the other rooms) is that almost all of the electrical outlets are installed upside-down, with that annoying third prong at the top instead of the bottom.
Same in the bathroom...new sheets of vinyl (designed, of course, to LOOK like tile) have been nailed to the walls, but they don't line up exactly right in most places. We also noticed that one wall wasn't exactly nailed down yet. Like the aspiring Bob Vila who previously owned the place ran out of nails right before attaching that one piece...so he solved the problem by propping the sheet of "tile" against the wall. I'm figuring he just couldn't stomach another trip to the home-improvement center.
So there are a LOT of trips to Menard's, Lowe's, Home Depot, and any other place that sells fixtures, flooring, and tools in our future. And where there's home improvement, there's comedy....
More house-related anecdotes as they roll in....
Monday, April 18, 2005
How to get arrested...
If you are not a fan of FOX's beleaguered show Arrested Development...oh, just become one. One of the things that's been annoying me lately is the fact that this show is in immediate danger of going off the air, and shows like Wife Swap somehow persist.
To do your part, visit www.getarrested.com and sign the petition.
(Now!)
To do your part, visit www.getarrested.com and sign the petition.
(Now!)
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Feline Time
One bitterly-cold winter night, this friendly little black cat came to our door. Meow...meow....meOW....MEOWWWWW. This went on for a few minutes before we couldn't take it anymore and started rummaging through the pantry for something to feed the little guy. (Or girl; at this point, we didn't know.)
This cat was not exactly a stranger — he'd been spotted cruising around the apartment building for at least a year or so. Rumor had it someone had abandoned him when they moved out of their unit, leaving him to fend for himself. He'd allow himself to be petted and fed, then disappear into the woods, and occasionally stalk small birds and the evil attack Canada geese that roost annually on the roof, honking, hissing, and making a mess. So we'd seen him before.
Anyway, I popped open a can of tuna, scraped it all out onto a paper plate, and carried it to the sliding glass door, where Mr. Kitty was still meowing pitifully and staring in at us, all warm and cozy and watching Survivor. When I opened the door, he blinked up at me, and my husband said, "Aww, it's so cold out...let him come in for a few minutes while he eats."
You cat lovers out there can probably guess what happened next.
Fast-forward to that weekend, when he was allowed to spend Saturday night and Sunday afternoon hanging out with us. All the rest of the next week, he'd be waiting by the door as soon as we came home from work, ready to eat. (I finally had to break down and buy some Nine Lives on my weekly shopping pilgrimage.) By the time a week had passed, I was out shopping for such feline necessities as a litter box, a huge plastic vat of kitty litter, a collar (with bell, to give our pet birds some fair warning), a little pink kitty brush, fish-shaped kitty treats ("now with more tuna!"), and of course the required squeaky mouse and little bag of catnip.
Yes, this little black cat had claimed us as his family.
Kitty appeared very healthy, with one exception. Well, two. For one thing, he'd randomly drool for no apparent reason. Secondly, it was pretty likely he hadn't had a shot for anything in years. I knew what I had to do...take him to the vet. While I'm glad now that I did, I am also glad that the ordeal is now over. (I'm still not sure who it was worse for, me or Kitty — I mean, at least he got to be loaded with some really great anesthesia!)
In addition to jabbing needles in him for rabies, distemper, and kennel cough, they determined that he had a pretty bad infection in the gums on one side of his mouth. Not only did I have to take him to the vet for shots, now I had to bring him back for dental work! Up until now, the ideas of "cats" and "dentistry" had never seemed to go together. So I took him, and they pumped him full of drugs and ended up having to extract two teeth. I know he must feel a lot better now...but I still feel pretty guilty.
This being my first cat (I've always been a dog person), I'm now finding out a lot about felines, including the fact that cats are masters of the art of the guilt trip. Let's just say Kitty's been gulping down a lot of those fish-shaped tuna treats lately....
This cat was not exactly a stranger — he'd been spotted cruising around the apartment building for at least a year or so. Rumor had it someone had abandoned him when they moved out of their unit, leaving him to fend for himself. He'd allow himself to be petted and fed, then disappear into the woods, and occasionally stalk small birds and the evil attack Canada geese that roost annually on the roof, honking, hissing, and making a mess. So we'd seen him before.
Anyway, I popped open a can of tuna, scraped it all out onto a paper plate, and carried it to the sliding glass door, where Mr. Kitty was still meowing pitifully and staring in at us, all warm and cozy and watching Survivor. When I opened the door, he blinked up at me, and my husband said, "Aww, it's so cold out...let him come in for a few minutes while he eats."
You cat lovers out there can probably guess what happened next.
Fast-forward to that weekend, when he was allowed to spend Saturday night and Sunday afternoon hanging out with us. All the rest of the next week, he'd be waiting by the door as soon as we came home from work, ready to eat. (I finally had to break down and buy some Nine Lives on my weekly shopping pilgrimage.) By the time a week had passed, I was out shopping for such feline necessities as a litter box, a huge plastic vat of kitty litter, a collar (with bell, to give our pet birds some fair warning), a little pink kitty brush, fish-shaped kitty treats ("now with more tuna!"), and of course the required squeaky mouse and little bag of catnip.
Yes, this little black cat had claimed us as his family.
Kitty appeared very healthy, with one exception. Well, two. For one thing, he'd randomly drool for no apparent reason. Secondly, it was pretty likely he hadn't had a shot for anything in years. I knew what I had to do...take him to the vet. While I'm glad now that I did, I am also glad that the ordeal is now over. (I'm still not sure who it was worse for, me or Kitty — I mean, at least he got to be loaded with some really great anesthesia!)
In addition to jabbing needles in him for rabies, distemper, and kennel cough, they determined that he had a pretty bad infection in the gums on one side of his mouth. Not only did I have to take him to the vet for shots, now I had to bring him back for dental work! Up until now, the ideas of "cats" and "dentistry" had never seemed to go together. So I took him, and they pumped him full of drugs and ended up having to extract two teeth. I know he must feel a lot better now...but I still feel pretty guilty.
This being my first cat (I've always been a dog person), I'm now finding out a lot about felines, including the fact that cats are masters of the art of the guilt trip. Let's just say Kitty's been gulping down a lot of those fish-shaped tuna treats lately....
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Alarm Clock Guy, Chapter 2
OK, this is getting ridiculous.
Alarm Clock Guy (a.k.a. guy in the apartment above me) is out of control. I've gotten used to his stomping around first thing in the morning (almost) and barely even wake up anymore when it happens. But last night was totally insane.
4:00 a.m.: The pacing starts. And not just back and forth, back and forth, in one room. No. This was one end of the apartment to the other, heavy footsteps, obviously ruminating over something very troubling and anger-inducing.
4:30 a.m.: ACG settles down a bit. Now it's just creaking, but still one end of the apartment to the other. I'm able to doze when he heads to the living room, which seems to be directly above our living room.
5:00 a.m.: Creaking stops. Aaaah. Sleep....
5:30 a.m.: The usual! He flops out of bed again (BOOM, BOOM!) then walks to the bathroom. (step, creak, step creak, step creak, squeak (that's the door)). How could he possibly be getting up now? He just went to bed half an hour ago!
On the plus side, ACG's antics make my snoring seem like a minor inconvenience. We have GOT to get our own place...somewhere where all the floors belong to us, and if the kids (the kids we might or might not ever have, depending on if we decide we're not happy without rapidly-filling diapers, binkies, and upholstery encrusted with pulverized Cheerios) start pounding around up there, I can scream up the steps, "I know you don't want me to come up there!" and then they'll knock it off. Maybe.
Well, until next time. I'm going to go ear-plug shopping.
Alarm Clock Guy (a.k.a. guy in the apartment above me) is out of control. I've gotten used to his stomping around first thing in the morning (almost) and barely even wake up anymore when it happens. But last night was totally insane.
4:00 a.m.: The pacing starts. And not just back and forth, back and forth, in one room. No. This was one end of the apartment to the other, heavy footsteps, obviously ruminating over something very troubling and anger-inducing.
4:30 a.m.: ACG settles down a bit. Now it's just creaking, but still one end of the apartment to the other. I'm able to doze when he heads to the living room, which seems to be directly above our living room.
5:00 a.m.: Creaking stops. Aaaah. Sleep....
5:30 a.m.: The usual! He flops out of bed again (BOOM, BOOM!) then walks to the bathroom. (step, creak, step creak, step creak, squeak (that's the door)). How could he possibly be getting up now? He just went to bed half an hour ago!
On the plus side, ACG's antics make my snoring seem like a minor inconvenience. We have GOT to get our own place...somewhere where all the floors belong to us, and if the kids (the kids we might or might not ever have, depending on if we decide we're not happy without rapidly-filling diapers, binkies, and upholstery encrusted with pulverized Cheerios) start pounding around up there, I can scream up the steps, "I know you don't want me to come up there!" and then they'll knock it off. Maybe.
Well, until next time. I'm going to go ear-plug shopping.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Alarm Clock Guy
I am dreading waking up tomorrow morning.
Not because it's early. (I've gotten used to that part.)
Not because it's Saturday and no self-respecting lazy person wakes up before they're gosh-darned good and ready on Saturday.
And finally, not because there's anything I have to do on Saturday, besides shop for groceries and pretend to obsess about cleaning the house and/or bathrooms, depending on whether there's enough of that cling-to-the-underside-of-the-bowl blue cleanser stuff to buy me valuable time sitting on the couch, watching DVDs while thinking to myself, "Just a few more minutes till that stuff has a chance to kill all the germs lurking under that rim."
No, the reason I dread waking up tomorrow morning is that I know I will be up too early.
This is because of Alarm Clock Guy.
My husband and I live on the ground floor of a three-floor apartment complex. The guy above us is a person we have never actually personally met, but I can honestly say that I hate this person's guts. Every morning (even on Sunday, for those of you who are thinking I'm exaggerating), we are subjected to a ceiling-rattling ritual in which, from the sound of things up there, this guy heaves himself out of bed and jumps to the floor as hard as he can, then proceeds to juggle bowling balls (badly) on his way to the bathroom. I'm seriously not kidding here. Sometimes our ceiling fan actually starts making a different noise after he rises.
Alarm Clock Guy would be a godsend if he got up exactly two and a half hours later than he normally awakens. Unfortunately for us, he is what the proverbial proverb-writers had in mind when they came up with that whole "early bird" thing.
I'd better get to bed...the later I fall asleep, the more susceptible I am to "ceiling rage." More tomorrow, especially if I fall victim to the temptation to play The Sims in the morning before grocery shopping. That always makes me extra sensitive to the idiotic things human beings, including myself, do.... :)
Not because it's early. (I've gotten used to that part.)
Not because it's Saturday and no self-respecting lazy person wakes up before they're gosh-darned good and ready on Saturday.
And finally, not because there's anything I have to do on Saturday, besides shop for groceries and pretend to obsess about cleaning the house and/or bathrooms, depending on whether there's enough of that cling-to-the-underside-of-the-bowl blue cleanser stuff to buy me valuable time sitting on the couch, watching DVDs while thinking to myself, "Just a few more minutes till that stuff has a chance to kill all the germs lurking under that rim."
No, the reason I dread waking up tomorrow morning is that I know I will be up too early.
This is because of Alarm Clock Guy.
My husband and I live on the ground floor of a three-floor apartment complex. The guy above us is a person we have never actually personally met, but I can honestly say that I hate this person's guts. Every morning (even on Sunday, for those of you who are thinking I'm exaggerating), we are subjected to a ceiling-rattling ritual in which, from the sound of things up there, this guy heaves himself out of bed and jumps to the floor as hard as he can, then proceeds to juggle bowling balls (badly) on his way to the bathroom. I'm seriously not kidding here. Sometimes our ceiling fan actually starts making a different noise after he rises.
Alarm Clock Guy would be a godsend if he got up exactly two and a half hours later than he normally awakens. Unfortunately for us, he is what the proverbial proverb-writers had in mind when they came up with that whole "early bird" thing.
I'd better get to bed...the later I fall asleep, the more susceptible I am to "ceiling rage." More tomorrow, especially if I fall victim to the temptation to play The Sims in the morning before grocery shopping. That always makes me extra sensitive to the idiotic things human beings, including myself, do.... :)
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Good Hair, Bad Hair
Miami Herald columnist Dave Barry once described his hair using the adjective "free-range."
I can relate.
This hair thing is spiraling out of control, rapidly becoming a shine-serum-coated juggernaut that's draining my time and my savings account. It all started when my husband was vacuuming one day, and the vacuum cleaner was refusing to pick up even the smallest pieces of debris—fish flakes, cockatiel feathers, human toenail shards, that kind of thing. (We're an eclectic little family/school/flock, depending on your perspective as a species.) Anyway, an investigation of the contents of the vacuum bag showed us two things: 1) our cockatiel eats very few of the sunflower seeds that are included in large quantities in the more expensive bird food; and 2) my hair. A lot of my hair. There was enough in the bag to populate a whole new head. Then he flipped the vacuum over and inspected the brushes and other moving parts...and discovered they, too, were clogged with hair.
At the time, I had very long, thick hair, that apparently fell out a rate equal to the rate of re-growth, since with the amount of hair in that vacuum cleaner, it should have been way easier to pull a brush through what was left. Shopping for barrettes and cute clips and scrunchies that would hold it all without exploding into plastic shrapnel was a challenge. Something had to change.
"You should get your hair cut," my husband said.
I did. Not right away, and not because he said so. (Well, kind of because he said so.) Short, but not too short. And then my stylist said, "You could use some highlights..."
And so the obsession began.
I can relate.
This hair thing is spiraling out of control, rapidly becoming a shine-serum-coated juggernaut that's draining my time and my savings account. It all started when my husband was vacuuming one day, and the vacuum cleaner was refusing to pick up even the smallest pieces of debris—fish flakes, cockatiel feathers, human toenail shards, that kind of thing. (We're an eclectic little family/school/flock, depending on your perspective as a species.) Anyway, an investigation of the contents of the vacuum bag showed us two things: 1) our cockatiel eats very few of the sunflower seeds that are included in large quantities in the more expensive bird food; and 2) my hair. A lot of my hair. There was enough in the bag to populate a whole new head. Then he flipped the vacuum over and inspected the brushes and other moving parts...and discovered they, too, were clogged with hair.
At the time, I had very long, thick hair, that apparently fell out a rate equal to the rate of re-growth, since with the amount of hair in that vacuum cleaner, it should have been way easier to pull a brush through what was left. Shopping for barrettes and cute clips and scrunchies that would hold it all without exploding into plastic shrapnel was a challenge. Something had to change.
"You should get your hair cut," my husband said.
I did. Not right away, and not because he said so. (Well, kind of because he said so.) Short, but not too short. And then my stylist said, "You could use some highlights..."
And so the obsession began.
Friday, November 05, 2004
The First Post
As the title of this blog indicates, my plan is to use this space to vent a little about some of the stupidity in my world. (I promise not to go on and on about Survivor, even though I was yelling at the TV last night!) The title is also an homage to the ill-fated character Mr. Heckles on Friends, whose "Big Book of Grievances" was my inspiration.
The most obvious subject for my first gripe-fest would be:
WEDDINGS.
Not "getting married," but having a wedding. It happened two months ago, but I'm still having nightmares. Not that the ceremony and reception didn't go smoothly (they were perfect, in fact). The planning process, on the other hand, was...well, not all fun. Some parts even approached horrifying. From the time we got engaged to the actual wedding, a year elapsed, and at 11:30 PM on the night before the wedding, my mom and I were frantically winding tulle around columns in the hall we'd rented.
But anyway, this subject is kind of obvious, and many people have written many helpful books on the subject. I highly recommend the book Bridal Bargains for any female person who's thinking about getting married, even if she has not technically chosen a groom yet.
So...what has annoyed me today. Let me think. Hmmm...another obvious one, but: TRAINS.
My new husband is a toy train freak. Actually, his whole family loves trains. He is currently using one entire bedroom of his mom's apartment to construct this giant toy train layout. If it's not done by Christmas, to hear him tell it, then grave consequences will ensue. I know this because last year, he stayed up for at least 48 hours straight finishing Christmas Train Extravaganza 2003. Children and adults from all over the building came over and stood near it while he ran the trains. So this is important. Tradition. If he doesn't finish it, his whole family will probably think that I am trying to stop him from liking trains, and before they know it I'll have him doing things like eating sushi and selling his motorcycle so we can buy attractive, matching furniture. But I actually have nothing against the train thing. In fact, in some ways it is fascinating. We go to this train show in Chicago periodically, and it's oddly interesting to peruse all the tiny houses, vehicles, and naked O-scale human figurines (yes, they DO make these...haven't figured out why). What I do have a problem with is REAL trains.
I have this friend in Florida who LOVES trains—real ones. He's the only human being I've ever met who is happy when his simple trip to the mini mart is interrupted by flashing lights and train gates. He'll drive great distances to exotic places like Waycross, Georgia, to view trains. And take notes. But anyway, he's not the annoying thing. The annoying thing is the reason that he thinks my town is his idea of heaven. He loves visiting me because we have a lot of trains. Constantly.
Yesterday, for example, I left for the office 10 minutes before work. Didn't get there till 5 after 9, even though it's only a two-mile commute. A train was coming through town (slowly), and I had to sit there. Since it's not a big town, the train temporarily divides it in half like a wall. No one goes anywhere. So you can either accept your fate and sit there, or you can race to the next intersection and try to shoot across before those gates start flashing and descending. (Obligatory public service message: NEVER drive around the gates. This is illegal and dangerous.)
So the point is, sometimes the earlier I leave for work, the later I get there. How irritating.
Reading this over, I'm struck by the lameness of this rant. Maybe by tomorrow I'll have a better subject. (If not, I'm stuck with either the election or Rory from Survivor.)
The most obvious subject for my first gripe-fest would be:
WEDDINGS.
Not "getting married," but having a wedding. It happened two months ago, but I'm still having nightmares. Not that the ceremony and reception didn't go smoothly (they were perfect, in fact). The planning process, on the other hand, was...well, not all fun. Some parts even approached horrifying. From the time we got engaged to the actual wedding, a year elapsed, and at 11:30 PM on the night before the wedding, my mom and I were frantically winding tulle around columns in the hall we'd rented.
But anyway, this subject is kind of obvious, and many people have written many helpful books on the subject. I highly recommend the book Bridal Bargains for any female person who's thinking about getting married, even if she has not technically chosen a groom yet.
So...what has annoyed me today. Let me think. Hmmm...another obvious one, but: TRAINS.
My new husband is a toy train freak. Actually, his whole family loves trains. He is currently using one entire bedroom of his mom's apartment to construct this giant toy train layout. If it's not done by Christmas, to hear him tell it, then grave consequences will ensue. I know this because last year, he stayed up for at least 48 hours straight finishing Christmas Train Extravaganza 2003. Children and adults from all over the building came over and stood near it while he ran the trains. So this is important. Tradition. If he doesn't finish it, his whole family will probably think that I am trying to stop him from liking trains, and before they know it I'll have him doing things like eating sushi and selling his motorcycle so we can buy attractive, matching furniture. But I actually have nothing against the train thing. In fact, in some ways it is fascinating. We go to this train show in Chicago periodically, and it's oddly interesting to peruse all the tiny houses, vehicles, and naked O-scale human figurines (yes, they DO make these...haven't figured out why). What I do have a problem with is REAL trains.
I have this friend in Florida who LOVES trains—real ones. He's the only human being I've ever met who is happy when his simple trip to the mini mart is interrupted by flashing lights and train gates. He'll drive great distances to exotic places like Waycross, Georgia, to view trains. And take notes. But anyway, he's not the annoying thing. The annoying thing is the reason that he thinks my town is his idea of heaven. He loves visiting me because we have a lot of trains. Constantly.
Yesterday, for example, I left for the office 10 minutes before work. Didn't get there till 5 after 9, even though it's only a two-mile commute. A train was coming through town (slowly), and I had to sit there. Since it's not a big town, the train temporarily divides it in half like a wall. No one goes anywhere. So you can either accept your fate and sit there, or you can race to the next intersection and try to shoot across before those gates start flashing and descending. (Obligatory public service message: NEVER drive around the gates. This is illegal and dangerous.)
So the point is, sometimes the earlier I leave for work, the later I get there. How irritating.
Reading this over, I'm struck by the lameness of this rant. Maybe by tomorrow I'll have a better subject. (If not, I'm stuck with either the election or Rory from Survivor.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)